Losing immortality, part 2
by LisaAbiona15
Summary: Even immortality has its limits.. what happens when the Gods' supplies of Ambrosia, Nektar & Power start to deplete?


Eventually the hearth's fire dies

I do not own Greek mythology

She hardly seems to notice. Her kind smile never turns sour, her warm eyes never stop burning. Her embraces remain healing. Still, there are cracks in that perfect calm sometimes.

She cannot bear to watch the news. Medusa seemed to have used her power on her eyes whenever she sees the news, reads a paper, hears the gossip anywhere. If she were capable of hatred, you are sure you would see it in her eyes when she looks at her own veins and realizes how it is diminishing.

She pushes herself harder than even you – so ambitious that you sometimes swallow red bull& coffee to study another night- sometimes. She seems to hardly notice the strain on her body, but you know she does. You see her fingers press to the bags beneath her eyes sometimes, like she has to feel it to believe it. Forgets her strength is waning, stumbles when trying to lift something only an Olympian is able to.

You walk downstairs in the morning and there is a king's feast and a gentle hand on your shoulder as she kisses your cheek. There is laughter in the house somewhere, and often one of the little ones sits on her hip.

She has this radiance of peace, of warmth, of gentleness. (she also has a far more terrifying side, hidden beneath layers and layers and layers and layers of this stunningly gentle and good woman)

She seems to have a limitless supply of smiles, of wordless support, of the kind of words you would think only a mind reader could come up with. Perhaps she just know all of you. Perhaps it is just that she cares so much, cares enough to look past facades put up & walls & everything other would simply call 'difficult'.

Care. She cares. She cares about everything, from the ants she scolds you for killing to the abused humans locked in prison. She cares about those who bite out of terror and those who bite because they have been taught to.

She does not judge. In fact, that may be her only true flaw: how forgivable the world seems to her. That is the only time you recognize her for what she once was ( immortal. So far away from mortality that comes with everything mattering so much more)

It is odd, because that is the exact opposite from everything her family used to be. Then again, is that not exactly what she has always been? The caring to their cruelty, the comfort to their punishment, the humility to their (never admitted to) pride..

She does not seem like such a powerful, fearsome being. Not right now, with a smudge on her cheek while she hums along with the song. One of your brothers is hanging on to her long, flowing skirt. She laughs gently and picks him up, then continues to sway with him in her arms.

You, leaning against the doorway, smile as she starts to sing softly. Your little brother smiles happily, the missing front teeth he is normally shy about apparently forgotten. Then you notice it again and you feel like someone dumped you into the Styx.

It is only a split second, a moment you miss easily by blinking. Something that might even pretend to be insignificant. That she pretends is insignificant. She spins and makes the snapping of her fingers part of the dance, of this act that is making your little brother grin so widely.

But you've seen that motion a thousand times and know it is actually meant to create fire and you know her back so that 1/100 of terror and pain in her eyes is enough. You walk forward, wrap your arms around the both of them.

You say nothing. Just gently take the spatula from her and nod at the chair. She sighs. (she normally hates it when you take over, because she actually likes cooking : it is a way of caring) But you know she needs this. That she needs to recede into herself for a moment , something she never allows herself to because it feels so very selfish to her

You finish making the breakfast with your brother's chubby arms around your neck and mindless chatter aimed at him. Whenever you glance at her, mom is smiling at you. She loves how your brother no longer shies away from touch, how it is getting easier and easier for him to smile.

Finally though, he starts to squirm. He always wants to go back to her after some time, the time with those bastards not completely gone from his mind. You imagine mom is his knight, the brave warrior fighting away all the monsters his former foster families must have become in his young mind

(or is that just what it used to be like for you?)

You carry him back to mom, places him in her arms. He immediately calms, cuddling closer to the once again smiling woman. She inclines her head towards the winding staircase, her way of telling you to call the rest of the gang downstairs.

There are doors slamming, voices calling, showers going on and all other manner of ruckus. You roll your eyes, calmly finishing the breakfast as the noise upstairs continues. By the time the first runs into the room, you are walking over to the table with a stash of pancakes.

They all come in, rubbing sleepy eyes or running around excitedly or glaring or talking. Even the sleepiest or most grumpy ones do something like walking over to your mom to hug her or smile at her or mutter 'morning'.

Like always, it is a freaking mess. Your mother gently chides, wipes chins and cheeks and laughs at jokes that sometimes aren't funny at all. Asks about school and is genuinely interested. When the food is gone, you clean together and it is all very much like a game with a lot of laughter and some jeering.

Even the little ones carry plates ( your mother never gets mad if something gets broken) , though most of them trail after mom like little ducks. She doesn't mind, picking them up sometimes or skillfully making sure she does not stumble over them or knock into them.

The world would be so perfect if your mother wasn't hurting. Maybe she doesn't show it. Maybe her smiles are genuine and perfectly happy. But you know it hurts. You know she loves her bond with fire (the hearth), that she loves little flames licking at her fingers. You know she has other talents she hardly ever speaks of but definitely needs.

You (and some of the other older ones) have recognized the moments where she falters, that horribly young (lost) look in her eyes. The steel as she pushes away something that must be her worst nightmare.

When everyone has already left ( for school or to play upstairs) , you linger. You walk over to her and hug her. She leans into you, closing her eyes. You stare at the hearth in your kitchen-dinner room together and her left hand slowly raises. It trembles in the air for a moment…- you are not looking at her eyes, but they must be terrified- .. then makes an elegant motion like wiping away dust

In the heart, flames slowly turn into figures and dance around you. The same trick that is in some of your earliest memories. The one that has her pale and sweat and little droplets of ichor fall from her brow now ( instead of the carefree easiness from before)

She once told you

I loved my family, even all the flaws they never admitted to having. I also loved the mortals and was fascinated by all that they were capable of. I did not care for prayers, sacrifices or grand cities naming me their patron. But I loved to sit next to the heart and make the flames live.

She never told you it was because she was lonely. You heard it in her voice anyways.

She pats your bicep, then walks over to the cupboard. She takes the chest from it, unlocks it. Nibbles on the ambrosia. You watch the veins at her wrists pulse sickly for a moment, looking like a river/snake made of gold.

She grimaces, you remember

 _Sure the taste was wonderful, but if you have something delicious for millennia do you not think it will lost its appeal? I loved being around my family more than the food and loved sitting around fires with mortal families far more. It pains me to admit it, but there was almost always a gentle, loving atmosphere my own family missed. Despite my best efforts._

When she is finished , she walks towards the door to go to the little ones. This is usually the signal to you to finally leave for work but this time you stop her from leaving. You open your mouth, ready to talk and to comfort and to tell her 'how can I make it hurt less' but she shakes her head.

When you were eight, one of your friends got ill. Really ill. You cried really loudly and really long and she promised to make it okay. You did not understand back then. But you understood later.

Ambrosia and nectar can heal even the worst injury and if it is given to a life that is already almost in the Underworld, then it can make them return. However, everything has its limits.

You owe her so much. You owe her happiness and a life and learning how to love and a bright future. You despise that you cannot give her the one thing she might want for herself. She still doesn't speak, just smiles at you in understanding, touches your cheek briefly.

A year ago, she cut herself and nothing she did could heal it.

 _Do not be sad if it happens. I have lived for far longer than I cared to. And do not feel guilty. The real magic in my life was all of you_


End file.
